


Initiation

by Paradisi (Apricot)



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Droit de seigneur, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Kink Meme, Prima nocta, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-28 09:59:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11415534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apricot/pseuds/Paradisi
Summary: There's certain rules when you're joining the Southside Serpents.





	Initiation

**Author's Note:**

> _Droit de Seigneur: the alleged right of a medieval feudal lord to have sexual intercourse with a vassal's bride on her wedding night._
> 
> This contains extremely dubious consent and dubcon/noncon elements. More dubcon than noncon, but I'm tagging it anyway. If fics that flirt with the dubcon/noncon line aren't your cup of tea, I advise you to skip it.

Betty couldn’t stop trembling.

_“I’m sorry.”_

_Jughead’s voice had quavered over those words. For a second, she’d thought that he was about to take her hand, roll his eyes, laugh and pretend that this was all a stupid, stupid joke, some mistake that he’d made and he was going to get her out of here right the hell now._

_But he didn’t._

_“This is ridiculous,” she protested, her hands sliding up to cup his face. He couldn’t even look at her. “You’re telling me that if you join the Southside Serpents and we want to stay together…”_

_He wasn’t going to go through with it. He wasn’t._

_“There’s just…rules.” His face had been miserable. “Rules if I want to stay with them and rules if we’re going to be…every Serpent needs to prove…and I didn’t think—“_

_“Then let’s just go! Right now!”_

They hadn’t gone.

When he’d told her, she’d almost laughed incredulously. He couldn’t be serious. She’d told him she’d stick by him, be with him, _prove_ to him that not everyone would abandon him if he left Riverdale High, and then he came to her with this…

It would be the line he put his foot down on. This rule would shock him out of doing something as stupid as joining a _gang._ And in the end, he’d realize that there was one person who was willing to stick through anything for him. Do anything for him. Anything.

But he’d left her here, in this small room in one of the Serpent’s trailers, sitting neatly on a fold-out bed with sheets that smelled faintly like cheap detergent. And with every single heartbeat, Betty had waited for him to come rushing back. To call it off.

The door opened.

Betty’s heart leapt into her throat.

FP slid into the room, and her fists clutched the blanket on top of the bed involuntarily, her eyes widening as she looked quickly to behind him, willing Jughead to be there.

But he wasn’t there.

FP looked almost apologetic, shadows under his eyes, as he stepped into the room and gently closd the door behind him. For a second, Betty couldn’t even breathe.

“ _It’s an initiation…”_ _Jughead hadn’t met her eyes. That was when she’d known it was bad._

 _“Like hazing? Juggy—are you going to let them_ jump you _into this gang?!”_ She’d read about that.

 _“No,”_ he mumbled. “ _Since you’re my girlfriend…it’s with the…the leader of the Serpents.”_

The leader. The _leader_ was Jughead’s father.

The bed creaked under FP’s weight as he sat down on the bed.

Betty didn’t look at him. She couldn’t. Focusing on him might have made her burst into tears right then, so she concentrated on her feet instead—pale, bare, stripped of her boots and socks. For some reason it had felt ridiculous to leave those on and so she’d taken them off, but she regretted it now.

FP was still wearing his shoes, and there was a misshapen lump around his ankle where his pant leg had been stretched over the court-ordered house-arrest bracelet. There’d been a public outcry a few days when FP had been proved innocent of Jason’s murder, and although there was still going to be a trial—he wasn’t innocent of _everything,_ after all—the judge had ordered him home. Confined here.

Unbidden, tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, and she choked back a sob. She hated the fact that it had been the article— _her_ article—that had freed him now.

“ _Hey,”_ FP said, his voice soft for once. He shifted a little, and the crummy mattress springs shifted with him, sending her almost sliding toward him. She stiffened.

FP noticed and sat back, eyeing her. “Betty, we don’t have to do this.”

She heard, rather than saw, the clink of the bottle he’d brought in with him as he raised his arm and took a slow drink. Jughead had said he was trying to get sober. That didn’t take long.

“I told Jughead…well, I’d told him I’d do what he wanted, if he really wanted it, but this….”

_Jughead did want it. Otherwise…where was he?_

“Here.”

She didn’t move, but after a second the warm bottle brushed her hand. Betty stiffened, her spine ramrod-straight.

“Take it,” FP said, a touch wearily.

She bit her lip and then seized it, blinking back the stinging tears as she knocked back a long swallow too. She’d wanted to prove that she’d do _anything_ for Jughead. And apparently he wanted this so much he’d _let_ her. The alcohol—whiskey, she thought—burned all the way down.

“ _You don’t have to….”_ The words were a hoarse whisper that she had to work to get out. The burn of the whiskey helped.

FP was quiet for a second, before he took the bottle back. “That’s the rules. I didn’t make them. Can’t break them. Especially not for my own kid. That wouldn’t sit well with the rest of them.”

Betty bit the inside of her lip and closed her eyes tight, before she reached blindly for the bottle again. He gave it up willingly, and this time she managed to swallow twice as much down. It made her head spin a little.

“ _Careful,”_ FP said, his voice soft as he leaned in to take it from her. His hand brushed against her bare knee.

Betty flinched, but he didn’t retreat this time. His fingertips traced her knee again, then settled against her bare skin—the inside of her thigh, warm and calloused. She fought the urge to lean away from him even as he shifted closer.

“ _Relax.”_

She could feel his breath against the side of her face, and she closed her eyes tighter. His palm was moving slowly up her thigh, under her skirt. It wasn’t soft, or tentative—not the way she’d imagined it would be. Like she’d imagined boys hands could be.

His fingers traced between her thighs, and her legs snapped together involuntarily. It was mistake—it sandwiched his palm more tightly to her.

“ _It’s okay,”_ he murmured. FP’s hand was pinned and he didn’t try to move it, even as he whispered those words. She could smell him, leather and sweat and the faint reminder of whiskey on his breath and felt tears spike through her again. Then slowly, ever so slowly….he began to move his hand. It wasn’t much of a movement, and she squeezed her thighs tighter, but she wasn’t a match for his upper body strength. And pressing tighter just ground him harder against her. She swallowed hard.

“ _Lay back.”_

It was either do as she was told, or….or burst from the room right now, call it off, and she wasn’t going to do that. She was going to hold it together. Anger, for the first time, spiked through her—anger at Jughead, at FP, at the realization that everything had gotten her here—with Jughead’s _dad’s_ hand up her skirt and the tears that threatened to break past her lashes.

The burn of the anger was good. It felt better than the tears, and the sobs that she just managed to stifle back.

Slowly, she leaned back onto the bed, trying to even out her breaths. FP’s hand was still moving between her thighs, and as she fell back he slowly shifted off the bed. For an instant, she relaxed, but then realized her mistake. He’d moved to the thin carpet, and both hands were now sliding to her knees. He wasn’t retreating. He was slowly easing her legs apart.

Betty gasped, her eyes flying open, but the fact that he was on his knees and not…not above her, or on top of her, caught her off guard. FP gave her half a smile as his hands slid to her hips and jerked her to the edge of the bed so sharply an involuntary squeak escaped her.

No. No, he wouldn’t…this wasn’t…

FP pushed back her skirt and set on her with his mouth before she could recapture the thought. And this time she managed to stifle the gasp, surprise, shock filling her as he set on her with his tongue. Her legs pressed against him as she tried to close them as he licked her through her underwear—but unable to now that he was wedged between them and holding them apart. It was foreign, invasive…hot and embarrassing and Betty clamped her hand down over her mouth to keep from sobbing aloud.

Through her panic, she tried to struggle against him, but he kept her pinned and she moaned in protest. His hand snaked between her thighs, shoving her panties to the side and then it was his tongue against her flesh…the rough scrape of his jaw against her thighs…and the anger was back, the wild, reckless anger Betty sometimes felt beneath the surface, trying to claw its way out of her.

Hot tears were snaking down her face, and she squeezed her eyes shut tighter, her muscles tensing up when FP’s tongue grazed higher and then the shock made her flinch, startling her.

He must have felt it, because he pulled back just a little and did it again, and she could barely hear the low sound that he made because suddenly her gasps felt deafening. The second time, she felt almost paralyzed with it, a moan trapped in her throat, and the sudden urge to arch her hips, to get him right _there,_ to keep him _there…_

“ _No—“_ she managed, resisting it as she tried to twist, and FP released her.

“ _You need this,”_ he murmured, his voice much darker than before, and out-of-breath. He caught her again and before she could stop him his fingers slid against her, pushing _into_ her, against her rigid muscles. “Believe me, you want me to do this.”

“ _I—“_ she managed, her protest strangled by the way his fingers pressed, long and rough and dragging through her.

“Or—“ he withdrew, and sitting back on his heels. “Or I let you go and we stop this right now.”

Betty…. _hesitated._

She hesitated, and she felt the shame of that hesitation cut through her like a sunburn, flushing her pale skin red, and FP grinned at her— _smiled_ at her—and then leaned in again, careful and slow as his tongue started a rhythm against her clit that cut off her protest and turned it into a low, throaty moan.

She’d read about this too. She’d read books— _those_ kinds of books—books her mother had buried in forgotten nightstands and attic boxes. Books she’d found in the back stacks of the library and hidden in her backpack. Things girls talked about on TV shows but didn’t…but she hadn’t imagined it. Not about Archie, and not…not with Jughead…

FP’s finger pressed against her again, _into_ her, and she arched her back this time with a choked moan. He was _moving_ inside her now, and a fresh flush of anger spiraled into her along with the sudden wicked heat of it. Jughead hadn’t come for her. Jughead hadn’t _stopped_ this. His precious Southside Serpents…a _gang…_ was so important to him that he’d let this happen to her. He’d let his _father_ do this to her. And now Betty Cooper, polished ponytail, Pink Perfection painted carefully over her lips, had her skirt hiked up around her waist and her knees pinned to the sides of someone’s crappy mattress.

FP thrust a second finger into her, filling her deeper this time, stretching her. It burned and satisfied some ache in her that she needed, _wanted._ She moaned against the palm of her hand, biting down hard on her own skin to stifle that sound and the horror of how good it suddenly felt as her muscles helplessly clutched at his hand.

“ _Fuck.”_ FP swore and drew away.

For a second, she felt dazed, not realizing that he was rising to his feet. She focused on him, meeting his dark gaze before hers fell down to his hands. He was undoing his belt. Panic shot through her again.

He leaned over her, and she regained enough of her senses in those few seconds to flinch back, but he didn’t touch her. He was only seizing a pillow, and Betty sucked in a breath as he jerked her hips up, stuffing it underneath her.

“Christ,” he mumbled, his eyes raking over her and how her skirt was hiked obscenely over her hips, her breasts heaving through her blouse, her bitten lips and her tear-stained face. Betty could only stare back at him, half in shock, half in accusation, thighs still wide.

FP leaned in, and this time she didn’t flinch. He didn’t break his gaze as he pulled her hair free of its ponytail—a strangely intimate gesture that made her catch her breath as he neared her.

She could feel the heat of him against her now, even though he was barely touching her. She swallowed hard, biting down on her lower lip, even as she lifted her head a just a little so he could spread her hair along the mattress.

“ _There.”_

His voice was lower than before, but just as soft. She opened her eyes again so just as he slipped his thumb against her lips, making her part them with a soft gasp.

His other hand had slid to her hip, and as he shifted she realized the distraction.

He had pulled himself free—he was--

She had a fleeting glimpse of his cock, the thick hardness of it, and then he was angling into her, pushing inside her. Betty cried out, the surprise and shock of it overcoming that first, momentary flush of how _big_ he suddenly was inside her and how he sunk into her, helped by the smooth slickness between her thighs that she realized had been his intention all along. She was wet for him.

Embarrassment lit her up inside, shame sweeping through her, but it faded faster this time. Her head was buzzing...the whiskey finally kicking in. He was going slowly, and she clutched the sheets beside herself, stifling back another whimper as she closed her eyes tight.

Maybe…maybe if she could imagine...maybe…

But that was impossible. Even with the way everything was slightly smoother now, thanks to the whiskey, it was FP. His grip on her hips. The sharp, rough brush of his jeans against her thighs. The way he smelled of her father’s garage and smoke and whiskey. It was his muttered curses that she heard, delivered in that clipped, sharp way that was almost like Jughead’s...but not quite.

His hands slid to her blouse, his touch so much heavier now as he undid the first few buttons of her blouse. The air was cool against her skin as he bared the cups of her bra. He was fucking her harder now, hard enough that every single thrust sent her breasts bouncing a little and there were _sounds,_ beyond her muffled gasps and his harsh breaths...sounds of his skin slapping against hers and the creaks of the mattress. She opened her eyes, watching him watch her, watching his dark, hollow gaze take in every inch of her. Betty felt a flush that was like the rage that had taken her over that night at Ethel’s house. It felt like power. It felt _good._

SHe bit her lip hard and arched her back, spreading her thighs a little wider for him just to see what he’d do, and was rewarded when his lip curled in return and he bit back a groan.

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ,” he muttered, and dropped her thighs to grab her hips. It angled him closer, and it was harder now, faster, as he pressed a knee to the mattress for better leverage. It stole her breath away and now every thrust sent a sharp cry through her, a cry that made her entire body clench down on him.

“ _That’s it.”_ His face was wilder now too, and she felt rather than saw his hand steal down to brush against her again—repeating those motions that had made her jolt upward when he’d had his tongue on her.

It suddenly felt _electric._

She cried out, her body tensing against his, but not in protest this time. Her legs slid from the mattress and tangled around his waist, jerking him to her, and FP laughed as she pulled him closer—he _laughed,_ she hated him, she hated him, she hated Jughead and Archie and everyone in Riverdale but especially herself, oh God, especially the part of her that was grinding against FP as she shuddered and sobbed, her hands gripping his back.

It broke, and before she could recover FP’s mouth slammed against hers, bruising her lips hard enough that she could taste alcohol and copper and a faint, salty tang that could have been tears or...or maybe she could taste herself on him still. The thought made her shudder.

He snarled into her mouth, and then he was shoving into her harder, hard enough that her hips were pinned to the mattress as he shuddered over her. She could feel the sudden rush of heat as he came inside her. Marked her.

FP fell against her and onto the mattress, panting and hot as he pulled out of her. She could feel the mess of him beading down her thighs and suddenly she was close to tears again.

“ _Fuck,”_ he breathed, and despite the tears—oh God—she still responded when his hand slid between her thighs again, caressing her, slipping a finger inside where she was still sensitive and hot and wet with a long touch that felt possessive, felt like ownership. “ _I might just have to keep you for myself.”_

Betty closed her eyes tight, but couldn’t stop the way her muscles immediately clenched down on his fingers in response.

FP laughed softly.


End file.
